But Talfourd, like Planché, could rise above mere _jeux d'esprit_, and furnish, when necessary, bits of persiflage which deserve to linger in the memory. Thus, in one of the scenes, Pluto addresses Cerberus in a fashion intended to suggest Launce's colloquy with his dog in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona":-- You've yet to learn the notions of propriety, Observed by dogs in upper-air society; So I'll exhibit in a bird's eye view Th' ordeal well-bred puppies must go through. Your thoughts you show too openly--on earth They oft are saddest who display most mirth; You must by no means growl to mark resentment, Or wag your tail in token of contentment; When most you're doing wrong, be most polite, And ne'er your teeth show _less_ than when you bite, So may you still enjoy, when youth is past, The sunshine of your dog-days to the last. I have already referred to three classical burlesques by H. J. Byron. A fourth exists in the "original classical pastoral" called "Pan," which first saw the light at the Adelphi in 1865. Pan, it may be recorded, was impersonated by Mr. J. L. Toole. He had a good deal to say, and much of it was in the form of _jeux de mots_. Take, for example, the passage in which Pan discovers that Syrinx, whom he loves, is in love with Narcissus. He calls down thunder from the skies; and then follows this tirade:-- _Narcissus._ What means this sudden dreadful change, I wonder? _Pan._ It means, great Pan is outraged! _Omnes._ Pan! _Pan._ Ah, Pan! Beware his hate and jealousy, young man. Blight shall o'erwhelm ye! See, your native corn Turns into ashes with my withering scorn. Your wheat shall shrink and shrivel, every sheaf; Your cattle swell the _cattle_logue of grief; With murrain all your sheep rot in their pens, The pip shall finish all your cocks and hens; Dry rot shall spoil your flails, your ploughs, and harrows, Break up your waggons; even your _wheel_-barrows Shall come to _woe_. Your land shall grow so hard, in vain you tills. Like lazy volunteers, with weakish wills, It will object to being _bored_ by _drills_. Your turnip-tops shan't spring up from the roots, Your rye shall grow awry, your corn shan't shoot, Your peas, towards which the Arcadian feeder leans, Become things of the _past_, and all turn _beans_, Ha, ha! the prospect cuts you to the core, Probes, punctures, penetrates.--Pour, torrents, pour! Descend, ye hailstones, bumpers, thumpers, fizzers; It cuts you like a _knife_, doesn't it, Nar-_scissors_? This is a very fair specimen of Byron's rather careless method; and another is at hand in the following lines, which are spoken after the Carian captain has shown to Pan a jar of wine:-- _Captain._ That's wine. _Pan._ What's wine?